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Permafrost
M. J. Schwartz
Copyright © 2020 M. J. Schwartz
All rights reserved
First Edition
NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING
320 Broad Street
Red Bank, NJ 07701
First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2020
ISBN 978-1-64801-108-5 (Paperback)
ISBN 978-1-64801-109-2 (Digital)
Printed in the United States of America
Table of Contents
To my mother, Jane Ann, who left us too soon.
Pancreatic cancer sucks, I miss you.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to everyone who has read the many, many rough drafts and provided criticism and useful edits. Thank you to my mother who told me to finish this book no matter what.
And thank you K. W. for the immense amount of time, effort, and care you put into editing this monster.
Forever in my debt,
M. J. Schwartz
Prologue
Water
Jeremy Baron had just won his first swim meet while attending the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor, Michigan, as a freshman on a full-ride swim scholarship. His father, Kalvin Baron, had flown in from Alabama to watch him compete for the first time in his collegiate career and could not be happier as he grabbed his son outside of the Canham Natatorium after the match and gave him a huge hug in celebration.
“Hey, Pop, c’mon now,” Jeremy said, embarrassed.
“You swam like a fish out there! I am so proud of you. You’re gonna kick some serious butt in college!” his father said, shaking his shoulders. “Where do you want to go for dinner? Anywhere, sky’s the limit, my treat. Oh, also I called Mah. She says she is proud of you too and really sorry she couldn’t make it, work just wouldn’t cooperate.”
“It’s cool, I’ll call her when we get back from dinner. Hope she was able to get done grading all those papers at least. Can we go somewhere with good Southern barbecue? These Yankees up here have a strange idea of what good ribs are.” Jeremy and his father both chuckled at that and headed toward the parked blue rental sedan.
Although it was still early in the swim season, autumn in Michigan was drastically different from Alabama. It was October and already dipping down into the fifties. In Alabama, it was still hitting ninety degrees most days. Jeremy and his father were shaking from the cold when they got into the car. As soon as the engine came to life, they turned the heat on full blast, holding their frigid Southern fingers in front of the vents trying to get any reprieve from the cold and rubbing them together frantically for any heat.
“This cold is some shit up here,” Jeremy mumbled.
“Watch your language, son. Just because your mother isn’t here doesn’t mean you can start cussing now,” his father corrected.
“Yes, sir.” With the car finally warm enough for the two of them to think, his father put on the local radio and pulled out of the parking lot. Too much of his surprise, there were no commercials playing, and instead, they were greeted by sounds of AC/DC’s wildly popular song “Hell’s Bells.” With a warm car and empty stomachs, the two men left campus in the desperate search of proper Southern cooking or something close anyways.
“They say they get multiple feet of snow here.
